I MOVED through the casino with the paintings still on my mind, seeing the casino and the people in it as the painter might have seen them. The senior citizens squinting at the slots. The rumpled-looking dealers at the empty blackjack tables. The hotel clerks bent toward their computer monitors. The exercise lent a strange dignity to everyone, made them seem worthy of being memorialized. That’s what I loved about portraiture—how it captured the way a person’s personality, their past, their secrets, their desires or disappointments, settled into their body, their face. Good portraits, like the ones Mil had, did that—they raised a single life, even an ordinary one, to the light.

When I got to the spa, I stood in front of the door and stared through the glass, studied Emily standing at the desk. I wondered how the painter would have captured her. I knew she wasn’t religious anymore, and she would have hated to hear it, but there was a holy aspect to her face and hair. It had to do with the way the light came down from overhead. But that wouldn’t be the right way to paint her—there would need to be a hint of her slyness, her humor. That sneaky smile, the knowing, witty shine of her eyes. She looked up and saw me standing there, pulled a grimace, waved at me to hurry inside. Behind her, Luis was working a mop back and forth through the boutique, leaving wet zigzags on the floor.

“I’m glad you’re here. There’s so much to do. We have a visit from corporate next week. Monday. Even Whitney will be here. Just got word from Deidre down in Charlotte. Carrie knows, too, of course, but naturally she doesn’t give a shit so it’s all on me—us—to make sure everything goes smoothly.”

“Who’s Whitney?”

“Christ, someone didn’t pay attention during training!” That was true. “Whitney is our COO.”

“Okay, and what is she going to be doing here?”

“Each spa location is rated on a points system across six different categories. Service, retail, facility, customer engagement, teamwork, and operations.”

“Oh God,” I said.